He shook his head, trying to dislodge her death grip on his hair, but she held tighter. Brave undercover operative that he was, he ignored the pain.
“Go away, I’m busy.” He slipped his tongue deep inside her, closed his eyes at the smoothness of hot moist heat against his tongue, the essence of her making him so hard he couldn’t think. Her hips rose off the bed. She released his hair, her fingers clutching the sheets, and arched her back, coming with a breathy little cry that destroyed his control.
Lust poured off his body in waves of heat. He rolled on the condom, moved up the bed, savored the feel of her thighs tight around his hips as he eased against her.
“Come inside.”
The words whispered against his cheek and he drove so deep he thought he might pass out from sensory overload. He wanted to thrust deeper, harder, to get completely inside her. But she was small and tight and he didn’t want to hurt her.
“You okay?” he asked after a moment, his voice croaky.
He wasn’t okay. He was
not
freaking okay. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a moment to beg forgiveness, and when he opened them again, rather than moving, he brushed the hair back from her face. She regarded him steadily, her hands stroking the back of his neck.
Whatever the truth about this woman, in a violent world she’d shown him nothing but decency. He needed to slow down the hard and fast. Needed to make this as good for her as it was for him. He rocked against her and felt her shudder.
“Yes, I’m okay.” The laughter in her voice made him feel better.
Although it was tough to beat what he was already feeling, considering he was embedded so deep in her body he was dying a slow and happy death.
“Are you?” she asked.
“Hell yes.”
Gradually he began to move, tried to limit the mindless pounding of his blood and hold on to his ragged control. He rested his forehead against hers as she tilted her pelvis and took him deeper. Swallowed as she moved with him, thrust for thrust, trying to get even closer.
She was killing him. She squeezed her internal muscles around him, laughing when he groaned. His heart thumped so hard his pulse thundered in his ears, every muscle strained for release.
Oh God.
He pushed her thighs wider and ground against her. Too desperate to play games. Too desperate to think. His mind blanked the exact same moment she cried his name. Poured himself into her on a wave of pleasure that blinded him and nearly made him scream.
Shocked and not wanting to meet her gaze, he buried his face in the pillow. The last thing he wanted was to reveal the emotions that whirled around his head like a Looney Tune gone bad.
That felt way too good.
She felt too fucking good.
Her breath was ragged in his ear, tickling his hair, and goddamn he enjoyed that sensation more than anything he could remember barring the last ten minutes. He closed his eyes.
He was so screwed.
***
“I love you.”
“Aye.” He pushed the drunken fool along the sidewalk. It was past midnight and the streets were empty.
“No, I really bloody love you.” Duncan Mackenzie turned bloodshot eyes on him and tried to smother him in a bear hug. He let the idiot wallow in sentiment.
“And I’m going to get that bitch.” Duncan stumbled over a crack in the pavement.
“Thinks she can treat me like shite.”
That had been the plan, but Duncan had messed up. Again.
Knowing the drunk would follow him anywhere, he climbed up on the outer harbor wall and let the breeze soothe his irritation.
Waves lashed like sadists’ whips at the bottom of the pier. He climbed higher. Held his arms aloft and let the wind wash over his feverish skin. The excitement and power that buzzed through him felt almost as good as sex, but not as good as killing. Duncan jostled him from behind and he tripped, falling to his knees only inches from the lethal drop.
“Watch where you’re going, fool!” he spat.
“Sorry.” Duncan wobbled as he took a few steps across the uneven stones. “Christ, this is wild. I haven’t been up here in years.”
“Go back if you’re scared.” He strode across the dark rock.
“I’m not scared—” Duncan’s bluster was lost in the wind. The drunken fool was full of crap. Always had been. Always would be.
He made his way along the wall. The other man’s hoarse breathing warned him that Duncan had caught up.
“Why do you hate Sorcha Logan so much?” He knew the answer. He
was
the answer. But he’d always wondered if one day a couple of brain cells might divide and Duncan might begin to understand what was going on. It was a frustrating to be powerful when no one had a clue.
Duncan shrugged and wiped spittle from his chin. “She doesn’t belong here.”
Brilliant.
He was surrounded by idiots. Einstein in charge of a flock of friggin’ sheep. He closed his eyes and breathed in a lungful of air. It was time.
“Goodbye, Duncan.”
Duncan’s mouth went slack in surprise as he shoved him off the wall. Even as he grabbed for safety, the moron had no idea what happened. There was a shocking thud as the drunk hit the boulders twenty feet below. A wave crashed over the body and swept it away.
He was dead.
And dead men did no harm.
What was that?
A scraping sound jerked her awake. A rhythmic
scrit scrit scritting
that had her eyes open and her heart pounding as she searched for clues in the dark. Was someone trying to break in?
It took a moment to realize it was a branch on the climbing rose outside, scratching against the stonework in the wind. She expelled a relieved lungful of air.
Ben’s weight pressed reassuringly against her side. Heavy thighs snared her leg, and a strong arm clasped her waist. She drew strength from his presence and was comforted by his calm breathing, which teased her hair.
He held her so tightly…
She quashed her thoughts. Hated being so desperately needy when she knew better. She’d thrown herself at him again.
Jeez.
At least this time he hadn’t leaped out of bed as though she was a leper. They’d even made it to the bathtub. And the shower.
The sex had been great. And there had been no voices, no ghosts, no reckless declarations of everlasting love. But getting close to people was not something that came easily to her. Her heart might be safely protected by wide-eyed reality, but it didn’t mean her feelings couldn’t be hurt.
Annihilated.
This time he’d been sweet. Funny. Making jokes about his lack of technique and trailing his fingers over her body as he told her how he was working up to the main performance. And now muscles ached from chasing pleasure in ways she hadn’t known existed.
His fingers tightened around her, tucking her snugly against his body, and she enjoyed the moment. Enjoyed feeling safe and connected.
Turning, she examined his face in the moonlight. His expression looked grim even in sleep, his jaws locked on some subconscious problem. She wanted to brush the hair away from his forehead and trace the lines of his face, but she resisted, not wanting to wake him. Fatigue carved the planes of his face and he slept heavily.
Lack of sleep killed you faster than lack of food.
Even with his arm locked around her, she didn’t feel hemmed in. With Bruce she’d liked her space, needed her space. But somehow Ben’s presence comforted rather than overpowered and made her feel sheltered and secure. She took a moment to admire the cute shape of his ear. Frowned.
Cute
ears?
No! It wasn’t possible. She was
not
in love with this guy. She was not going to get her heart broken by guy number two, although right now she couldn’t even remember what guy number one looked like, spoke like, or felt like.
How could she be so stupid?
Practice.
She chewed her bottom lip. Ben wasn’t likely to stick around for long. Why in God’s name had she fallen for a man who lived thousands of miles away? And what did she know about him anyway, except he made her feel normal and not like a freak?
She couldn’t
love
him. It was infatuation.
The world went quiet, supernaturally calm. Coldness pressed against her like an icepack on bare flesh. Thoughts of Ben died. Worries about heartbreak became insignificant and puerile.
Energy surrounded her, spirits shimmering in dark corners and fluttering on the edge of her vision.
They weren’t supposed to follow her here! Not when she was with somebody. She burrowed deeper into Ben’s arms, shivers racking her body. With a grunt he shifted his weight and flipped over.
Pain and anger flowed from the shadows, raising gooseflesh along her arms and shoulders. She pressed her cheek to Ben’s back, clung to him and squeezed her eyes shut against the sensations that stabbed at her mind. The voices started. Noisy screams and dull murmurs, more than one filling her mind with earsplitting intensity. She wanted to scream but couldn’t find the energy to work her throat.
“Here—come—here—come—here. Here. Here. Here.”
“Sorch?”
In a trance, she was aware of herself as if from a distance, sitting ramrod-straight in bed, her eyes fixed and staring, but seeing nothing—concentrating on something just out of reach. Finally she felt Ben’s concern driving into her and shook her head to clear the vision.
“Sorcha?” He held her so tight she wanted to sink deep into him.
Instead. “They’re here.” She climbed out of bed and pulled on her pajamas and robe.
“Who?” Ben rolled out of bed and into his jeans in one smooth movement.
“No.” Raising her hand, she shook her head. “Not
who.
” Detached, numb, she took a deep breath, trying to counteract the effect of all those souls simultaneously bombarding her senses. “My father’s diaries are upstairs in the attic.” It sounded crazy. Ghosts communicating with her, sending her messages from beyond the grave. She hunched her shoulders, wary of what Ben might say. “I think that’s what he was trying to tell me earlier.”
“Diaries?” He frowned.
“My father kept a journal and wrote in it every day. That’s what I was looking for earlier.” Sorcha couldn’t stop trembling. “It’ll take too long to explain.” Even if she knew how. Belting her robe, she said, “I need to find them and I need your help.”
There was no way she was going into the attic on her own at night. She trusted Ben. She didn’t know when that had happened, but she knew it was true when he took her hand and led the way. Half-afraid she was dreaming him, she squeezed his hand. But he squeezed her right back.
She was keeping company with a man who’d died more than a decade earlier and was falling in love with a guy she barely knew.
***
Iain Logan kept a journal?
And Ben was only finding this out now? This could be the break they needed to crack the case.
He glanced at Sorcha’s pale skin and bloodless lips. Not letting go of her icy fingers, he reached up to open the attic hatch and winced at the screech of the ladder as it dropped.
She said she saw ghosts. Normally he didn’t believe in supernatural mumbo-jumbo, but the hairs on the back of his neck snapped to attention in the charged atmosphere and his scalp prickled.
“Want me to go first?” He put his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.
She nodded vigorously, her pupils owl-wide and the grip on his hand bone-crushing. There was no sound. It was as if the whole house had been sunk into a void.
Okay.
Ghosts weren’t something he’d spent much time thinking about, but right now he was a little unnerved. They couldn’t be worse than going in the water though. He flexed his shoulders and climbed the ladder. Metal clanked with every step, the ladder shifting as Sorcha scrambled on his heels.
“There’s a light switch on your left, next to the hatch.”
He searched for the switch. Turned on a bulb that dangled from the rafters. Climbed into the attic and pulled Sorcha up behind him.
He made his way through the boxes looking for a dead man’s shadow. Dust rose in the air and Sorcha sneezed twice, then ducked in front of him, pulling at the boxes, opening and shutting them before pushing them aside.
“What do the journals look like?” he asked.
“I don’t remember.” Her lips pulled to one side.
Hope plummeted. She’d only been a kid when Iain Logan died. This sounded nuts…but if she was right and his ghost was communicating with her…They had to keep searching. Ben had nothing else to go on.
He opened cartons, pawing through contents as quickly as the faint light allowed. Sorcha hunted frantically, shoving container after container out of the way. They sifted box after box, frustration building. He dug his fingers into his hair, tension spiking as if the world held its breath. Ben didn’t like this supernatural shit. There was no logic, no evidence, no way to verify information.
He picked up a ration book from the Second World War and flicked through it.
“There are letters from my great-grandfather during the First World War too.” Sorcha showed him fragile, sepia pages.
Ben would like to read them one day. But not right now. “So where the hell is your dad’s stuff?”
Sorcha’s expression stiffened as if she thought he was doubting her, or maybe she doubted herself. What if she hadn’t seen a ghost and they were wasting their time sorting through a hundred years of crap in the middle of the night because she was crazy?
She seemed to sense his reservation. He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers. “Show me where you saw the ghost.”
She turned toward the end wall and pointed. “He was right there, standing next to the wall.”
Ben tried to see the attic as a whole, and not let the piles of junk distract him. They’d already searched most of the boxes. In the dimness of the shadows he noticed a narrow gap in the plasterboard where insulation poked out. “What’s that?”
Sorcha turned bleary eyes on him. “The wall?”
He would have laughed except she looked beat. He inched past her, smoothing his hand along the back of her neck as he did so. Her muscles were stiff with tension.
Gripping the plasterboard, he pulled it as far from the wall as he could, jammed his hand through the gap. The tips of his fingers brushed a hard edge. “I’ve got something.”
A book.
Excitement raced through him as he eased it out. Wiping the dirt with the palm of his hand, he held up one dusty notebook. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
Sorcha’s mouth dropped open and he grinned with a sense of relief and elation. Maybe these held the clues to who’d been smuggling dope when Sorcha was a child. He had no doubt the old traffickers would lead him to the new.
After a moment of astonished silence, her eyes shone with something that looked suspiciously like tears.
“I thought you’d be happy.” Jesus, he’d never understand women.
“I am happy.” She held out her hand and he passed her the book. “But I didn’t really expect them to be there.”
“Why not?” He stuck his hand back in the hole, searching for more.
“Because—” she forced a smile, but the sadness lingered in her eyes, “—it means ghosts are real.” She pressed the book to her heart and bent over as if in pain. “And my dad was actually here, and he touched me.”
Ben didn’t know what to say because all he cared about was reading those damned diaries. Guilt hit his chest. He didn’t know who he was screwing more. His dead partner, his DEA colleagues, or Sorcha Logan.
***
Warmth glowed from the hearth. Sorcha knelt on the rug in front of the fire with the stack of dusty mismatched journals they’d found shoved under the eaves, hidden behind drywall.
They terrified her so much her hands shook.
What answers did they hold? And who’d hidden them? The only person she could think of was her grandmother, but why would she do that? Sorcha picked up a burgundy notebook. Its pages were browned with age and damp spots that made the writing almost illegible.
“Here.” Ben handed her a towel to wipe off the grime.
She cleaned the covers, twelve in all, and stacked them neatly on the coffee table. Procrastinating.
The fire crackled, the flames burning dark and malevolent. A lick of crimson lashed out as if reaching for her.
Ben hauled her away. “You okay?” He tipped her chin. “Because you look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“I’m fine.” She rubbed her temples and shied away from the watchful flames. “A bit lightheaded, that’s all.” She allowed him to draw her to the sofa, leaning back as she reached for a mug of coffee. It was pitch black outside, the middle of the night. Clenching her hands around the mug, she tried to center herself.
Did Ben think she was crazy?
Of course he did.
At least
she
knew the ghost was real. Her father had led her to these journals for a reason, and hopefully once she discovered the truth about his death he’d leave her in peace.
Perhaps a little brutal truth was what she needed with Ben too. Drive him away before he got too close and broke her heart all over again. Get it over with before the hurt severed anything vital.
“I don’t just see ghosts. I hear things too.”
Ben watched her so intently she stumbled over the words.
“Inside my head. I see and hear ghosts. When I’m awake and in my dreams.” She tapped her skull.
His brows furrowed over his straight nose. “Like that woman in the TV show? What do they call it,
Medium?
” He wasn’t behaving how she expected. He was supposed to laugh or leave. To humiliate her in some way.
“A bit, I guess. But not exactly.” She put the mug on the floor. She didn’t understand it herself—how could she explain it to anyone else? “I don’t
see
anything.”
Except flames.
“I hear voices.” She slid her fingers into her hair above her ears. “Inside my head.”
His black eyes were intense, as if she were a puzzle he needed to solve. “Your father?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted, and then gathered her courage. “But others too. People I don’t know.”
She was a scientist, a logical person. She knew it sounded ridiculous, but now she had proof her father’s ghost was real, perhaps the voices in her head were also genuine?
“Do you think he was murdered? Your father? Is that why he’s haunting you?” Ben asked.
“What?” Shocked, Sorcha stared at Ben. “No.” Who would want to kill a man like her father? From the snippets she remembered he’d been a good man. A gentle man. She frowned. “I don’t know, okay? I only know that he wants me to read these books.”
Ben watched her silently. Not running very far or very fast. He picked up a journal. “They won’t tell you how he died.”
That insight took her by surprise. Were her inner worries so transparent?
“No.” She laid a palm flat against the cover. “But if he was suicidal he might have written about it here.”
Ben clasped her hand, his skin tanned against hers. “Have you always…?” He hesitated, the first time she’d seen his self-assurance waver.
Involuntarily her fingers curled into a fist. He couldn’t say the words, but at least he wasn’t openly sneering.
“No, I haven’t always seen ghosts.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “It started about a year ago, after my granny died. I was doing my M.Sc. in Brisbane.” She couldn’t drag her eyes from his black gaze. “I started seeing Dad all over the place.”